CHAPTER

23

After voice mail number three—the third of which never even rang, just went straight to her inbox—Brad realized he was probably doing more harm than good at this point. His finger hovered over Marianne’s contact, then he forced himself to scroll up and call his mother instead.

“Bradley!” Hearing his mom’s warm greeting—rather than a cold voice mail recording—instantly kicked his mood up a few notches. “Still hanging in there?”

“Still hanging in. Some days, by my fingernails.”

“Staying healthy?”

He debated a moment, then decided she could take it. “I hurt my knee, but it’s not too bad. I can still box, so that’s what’s important.”

“That’s hardly what’s important.” Worry bled through the phone line, and he hated giving her even a second of concern. “Your health is the important thing. Making sure after this is all over that you’re healthy enough to walk. Is it bad?”

“If it was bad, I wouldn’t still be here. They’d have sent me home. It’s really not that bad. I’ve got a doctor, a physical therapist and a trainer watching over me. Plus the coach.”

“Well, okay. If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure. This is important to me.” He flopped down on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

“It was important to your father, too. But it wasn’t the only thing he had going on, you know. He had you and your brother. And me, naturally. We were his world, and running was just a small, satisfying corner piece of the total puzzle. We were the big picture.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, and it was almost as if Brad could see a family portrait of them, as they had been right before his father had died. Smiling out from a puzzle that had the edges covered in their hobbies. His brother’s baseball, his boxing . . . The image made him smile.

“That was deep, Mom.”

“Uh-huh.” Her sarcasm came through loud and clear. “Ready for something else deep? I need you to think about what you want your big picture to look like. Your love of boxing is great, and I get it. And your desire to do this for your father is beautiful. But it’s not what defines you. What’s your big picture, Bradley?”

“I love you, Mom.” He wanted to tell her then, right then, that he’d already ruined his big picture. Marianne was finished with him—three unanswered, unreturned calls said that much loud and clear. So now what? His puzzle was just a bunch of edge pieces, with no middle?

“I love you too, Brad. Now, tell me more about boxing. Have you kicked anyone’s ass lately?”

“Mom.” He couldn’t help but laugh, even as his eyes burned from resisting tears.

Ten minutes later, as he hung up the phone, he heard Higgs come in through the shared common door. After a minute, Brad went over and knocked on his door. Higgs answered with a clipped, “Come in.”

“Hey.” As Brad leaned his shoulder against the doorjamb, he realized this was the first time he’d come to Higgs’ room, rather than the other way around. Had he been so closed off he hadn’t even approached his own roomie once? “What’s up?”

“I was just meeting my group for dinner. So.” Tossing his backpack on the desk, Higgs watched him. “You missed yoga. Hot date?”

“I think my days of hot dates are over.” He hesitated, then walked in and sat at the desk chair, much as Higgs had done in Brad’s room numerous times before. Made himself at home. That’s what friends did. “Cook’s done with me.”

“Women,” Higgs scoffed. “They just can’t get over it when a guy lies to them. How weird.”

“Okay, asshole, if you’re gonna be cute, I’ll just head to my own room.” Brad started to stand, but sat back down when his friend laughed. “Not funny,” he grumbled.

“It’s hilarious. Grandpa, Mr. I Work Alone, gets dumped by the hottie trainer the minute he realizes he doesn’t actually want to work alone. Yeah . . . that’s irony.” Stretching out on the bed, Higgs grinned. “So what’s the plan?”

“Plan . . .” Not following, Brad rested his good leg on the corner of the bed. “Uh, don’t get cut?”

“Oh, boy. You suck at this.” Roommate sighed and rolled his eyes. “I mean the plan to get hottie Cook back. You’re not telling me you’re just going to let her walk, are you? Because I didn’t think you were an idiot, but maybe I was wrong.”

“I didn’t think you were deaf, but maybe I was wrong. She dumped me. There is no plan.”

“I’m sorry, are you actually taking ‘no’ for an answer? What the hell kind of Marine are you?” Higgs actually looked offended at the possibility that Brad was accepting the situation as-is. “When the woman you love walks away, you run after her.”

“That sounds like an awful plan. Chasing after a woman?”

“You’re not chasing after her.” Higgs closed his eyes for a moment, as if in a bid for patience. “Have you never seen a chick flick before? The guy always fucks up, and then he does something spectacular to win the girl back.”

“Big fan of the chick flick, are you?” Brad smirked.

“I’m a big fan of keeping the girl I’m with—whoever she happens to be that week—satisfied.”

Brad rolled his eyes at the implied gigolo status.

“That has meant, on occasion, downing a tub of movie popcorn while seeing the selection of her choice. Side note . . . women who just got done watching a good romance are usually ready for some loving of their own.”

“Stop. Just stop.”

Higgs grinned and laced his hands behind his head. “Fine, be a prude. That’s not the point. The point is, you’re not running after her. Think of the drills we run. We’re all in a line, jogging at a pretty moderate pace, then guy in the back sprints up front to . . .”

“Get in front of the line,” Brad answered slowly, entirely unsure where this metaphor was heading.

“To get ahead of everyone. He’s not running to chase after them, he’s running to get ahead. So if he stopped dead in his tracks, the rest of the team would run smack into him. He’s in their way now.”

“Right. So, what you’re saying is . . . I want her to run into me.”

“There you go.” Looking like a satisfied teacher whose student had finally caught on to the material, Higgs gave him a thumbs up. “So get in her way.”

“Get in her way,” he repeated slowly. The metaphor was making more sense than he wanted to admit. Either Brad was desperate, or Higgs wasn’t half-bad in the romance department. “And I do that . . . how exactly?”

“Sweet Jesus, I have to do everything.” Sitting up with a grunt, Higgs spread his hands out. “What matters to her? Besides you, and maybe family—because involving parents in the wooing of their daughter is just a line that I don’t jump over—what is there?”

“Work. Her career.” That much, at least, was obvious.

“So how can you incorporate that into getting her back? You use her career, some humor, a dash of humility, and you’ve got yourself a surefire way of making sure she can’t miss you.” He settled back against the headboard and grabbed the remote for his small TV from the nightstand. “Get in her way.”

“Get in her way,” Brad mumbled as he walked back to his own room. What the hell was he supposed to do for that? Write “I LOVE YOU” in athletic tape on her training room walls?

He froze with his hand on his bedroom door handle, considering.

Nah. She’d call that a waste of good tape.

There was nothing he could buy . . . she had all the equipment she needed provided to her. He couldn’t help her keep her job . . . Coach Ace had already said he wasn’t going to let her go. So what could he . . .

The lightbulb hit him in the back of the skull like a bolt of lightning. He scrambled over his bed and grabbed his phone and called Tressler.

“Hey. Grab the group and meet me at that craft store off of Western. Yeah, the craft store. No, I’m not bullshitting you, just do it. I’ll be there in twenty. Tressler . . . I need you guys.”

He hung up, feeling hope once more springing through him.

He’d been knocked down, but it was time to get back up and get in Marianne Cook’s way.

*   *   *

MARIANNE walked across the gym toward the coach’s office early the next morning, prepared to have her ass handed to her, and then fight like hell to keep her job. As asked, Brad had slipped his report from his doctor and PT under her door the night before. She’d come to the gym early to pick them up and read them through.

Thank God, the damage was minor, and not a real threat to permanent damage. She’d prefer he took the season off to rest and get back to full strength again, but it wasn’t going to cause permanent damage to keep an eye on it, wear the brace and practice with caution.

Three things that could have been happening all along had he just been honest with her.

Since they weren’t due to meet with the coach for another thirty minutes, she wasn’t shocked to see Coach Ace’s door closed. Either he wasn’t in yet, or he was and didn’t want to be disturbed by any early comers.

Prepare to be disturbed.

She knocked, then poked her head in. Coach Ace sat at the computer, staring at the keyboard with disdain. One hand ran over his snowy white hair with agitation. “Coach?”

He glanced up, frustration radiating from his body. “Get in here and type for me.”

“Because I’m a woman?” she asked, deciding to start as she meant to go on: boldly.

“Because you’re half my size and my damn fingers never hit the right keys at the right time.” He stood and held out his chair for her. She sat, because she was at a loss of how else to say no. “Finish typing up this report here in the space. The cursor’s already in place. Last one.” He took a seat in the visitor’s chair and waved at the paper. “Go ahead.”

“Uh, I actually had something important to talk to you about.” She put her fingers on the keys, finding the home buttons, then pulled them back. “We need to talk—”

“About Costa, I know. Type,” he said again, softly. “I’m talking, you’re typing.”

She swallowed, then accepted that not only was she going to get her ass chewed out, she was going to be mildly demeaned in the process. Given some of the hazing she’d seen happen in gyms, typing a single report sheet wasn’t much to complain about. She started at it, typing with the ease born of having a laptop since she was twelve years old.

“Now see? My fingers are too clumsy to go that fast. Or that accurately,” he added, with a small smile. “I spend more time going backward than forward on that thing.”

Marianne couldn’t help but grin at that.

“Now, about Costa.” He settled down in his chair—or rather, the guest chair. His huge frame wasn’t made for a such a flimsy seat. She wondered if she’d be soon dragging him into her training room to ice down a chair-related injury.

“Costa is a leader. He might not be a leader on the scoreboard, but the boy’s got the Pied Piper syndrome.”

Marianne hadn’t ever heard it put quite that way, but could easily follow the coach’s meaning . . . and she agreed with him. She nodded once while glancing between the paper and the computer screen.

“I’d hate to lose him.”

“That’s what I wanted to—”

“And I’d hate to lose you.”

There was the opening shot. “I’d hate to lose the team.”

He nodded slowly, glancing around the room. She stopped typing to watch him. His dark face was devoid of any hint to his emotions. Pissed? Upset? Couldn’t care less? She wouldn’t have made a bet on any of them. “You see, that right there is why I’m about to say what I’m about to say. You’d hate to lose what?”

“Lose . . . the team?” Was that what he meant?

“There.” He pointed one thick finger at her. “Right there. You could have said job, or this opportunity, or even your paycheck. But the first thing out of your mouth was ‘team.’” He settled back again, a pleased smile on his face. “I think that says something, don’t you?”

“I . . .” She looked down at the paper again, but her eyes were blurring. “I don’t want to lose my job either, if that matters. Or the opportunity. And since I like being able to pay my rent . . . I don’t want to lose my paycheck.”

“Who does? But it wasn’t first on the list. That’s what matters to me. When it came down to it, you put the team above your own wants. There’s the kicker.”

She was quiet, blinking furiously to clear her line of vision so she could keep typing. If her fingers were busy, she could think better.

“I find it amusing,” Coach went on in a calm voice, “that I sat in here yesterday and had someone else willing to put other people ahead of his own wants. Know someone like that?”

She didn’t look up now, because if she did, he’d see the tear that rolled down her cheek and dropped into her lap. Maybe he saw it already. But he was kind enough—or embarrassed enough—to say nothing about it.

“I had a good Marine, a good boxer and a damn great leader sit in that chair yesterday and tell me he was walking because he thought I’d fire you otherwise. He was prepared to take the hit so you could keep your job.”

She looked up sharply, tear—and embarrassment—forgotten. “He quit? He just . . . quit?”

Coach watched her silently.

“That stupid son of a bitch,” she murmured, shaking her head. When she got her hands on him, his knee was going to be the last thing he worried about. “That stupid, pigheaded, stubborn—”

“Much as I love to hear a woman wax poetic,” Coach Ace said dryly, “I’ll just say he didn’t quit. He tried, but I shot him down. He can’t leave. I need him. The team needs him.”

She let her eyes drift closed. Her mind, having been so sharp with anger and frustration only moments ago, now felt fuzzy with relief. As if she were drifting on fluffy clouds of thought, with nothing concrete to anchor her anymore. The whole thing was just fucked up.

“So I’m keeping my trainer, and I’m keeping my boxer. I guess we’re all done.”

She cracked one eye open and held up the sheet of paper. “I’m not finished. Are you going to make me sit here and finish typing?”

He flashed a rare grin at her. “Nah. I just know that when people are nervous, doing something with their hands makes them easier to talk to. You happened to come in when I was struggling with the keyboard. Luck of the draw.”

“Next time, I’ll bring my knitting needles and we can gossip over the scarf I’m making my Nana for Christmas,” she said, and he laughed.

Sobering, he stood. She did as well, and held out a hand.

“I promise our, uh, situation won’t affect our work, on either side, from now on. Business only.”

The coach raised a brow at that. “You mean to tell me I just confessed that man was ready to walk out of my gym to save your job, and you’re not going to give him a second chance?” He whistled low. “That’s cold.”

“He . . . but he . . .” She blinked in surprise. “I’m sorry, I’m confused. Were you telling me all that to get us back together?”

He rolled his eyes and walked to his office door. “I’m here to coach boxing, not play Cupid. This isn’t Marine Matchmaking Headquarters. Date-A-Boxer,” he grumbled. “If you can’t take the information I just gave you and put two with two together, then the both of you aren’t ready to date a turnip.”

She wasn’t sure if she was supposed to be insulted or amused. He opened the door ahead of her and she waited for him to walk through, but rammed straight into his back with her nose instead. “Ow!”

“Oh, uh . . . sorry.” He took one step back, in which he stepped on her toes and nearly tossed her to the ground. “Sorry, sorry. My bad.”

“Coach . . .” She danced out of the way as he quickly shut the door again. “What the—”

“You know . . .” He glanced around the office wildly, his hands shoved deep in his sweatpants pockets. “Could you, uh, finish that report really fast?”

She stared at him, dumbfounded. “Right now? You’ve got practice to get ready for. I’ve got a training room to supervise.”

“No, see, because you were early and practice doesn’t start for another”—he checked his stopwatch—“forty minutes.”

She waited for a better explanation than that. He stared at her, a mountain of a man she’d be crazy to try to dodge around to get to the door. “You seriously want me to sit in here and type. Like a secretary.”

“My fingers.” He held up ham-sized hands, which really did have quite thick, blunt digits attached. With a soulful look, he glanced toward the computer and back again. “You’d really help me out.”

Since crawling between his legs to get to the door wasn’t an option, she sighed. “Just finish the form?”

“Just that one last form.” He sat back down, grabbed his clipboard from the corner of his desk and a pen and settled back in the chair. “Maybe one more. Or two. Three, maximum.”

“One,” she said firmly and settled down, resolving she would cave and do two as penance. It felt as if she’d gotten off easy on the ass-chewing she’d deserved. “Coach?”

“Hmm?” He was scribbling now, and she could easily imagine he was writing down boxing combinations, or conditioning drills, or group work.

“Would you have still boxed with a torn meniscus?”

“I did, for almost a year. I told him the same thing, and that the surgery isn’t difficult, and recovery is more annoying than painful.” When she chewed on her lip, he set the pen down and sighed. “He’s a big boy, Cook. Don’t make me play couples counselor, too. I’m not cut out for that shit.”

When she took in his imposing scowl and irritated body language, her lips twitched. “I don’t know, I think you might make a good one. You’d be one of those no-bullshit, straight-shooting kind of counselors that won’t let guys lie and girls weep to get out of being open.”

“Pass.” He went back to his clipboard. But she noticed he brought his phone out of his pocket and spent more time texting than writing.

“Done.” She pushed the first form toward him. “I hit save. Is that all?”

“One more.” He handed her another from the manila folder. “Please?”

She sighed, as if completely put-upon, and went back to typing.

Brad would be by any minute to start their originally scheduled meeting. Would she stay? Or let him talk to the coach on his own? Maybe there wouldn’t be a need to worry the coach about it, and they could just clear the air fully and move on.

Yeah, that would be good. Get out her feelings on the subject of their relationship—I hate you for making me love you but I still love you and I hate that, too—and he could say his piece and they could part ways as colleagues. Mature, rational and succinct.

Yeah. Right.